


Possession

by zempasuchil



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-23
Updated: 2004-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zempasuchil/pseuds/zempasuchil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will wants a lot of things back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

  
He can feel the strands of dream drifting away from him, slipping out of his grasp, hearing whispers carried away on an invisible wind. Something he knows was there, was there before, like he's lost it, and it leaves an empty space. Sometimes it's the only time he feels complete, when he's asleep. When he is alone in the darkness, inside his mind that tells him things that he never remembers enough when he awakens.

They come from somewhere, those dreams, they come from somewhere deep inside him. So deep it's like echoes coming millions of years later out of a chasm in the earth, trapped in the stream of time until they return to their point of origin, except it is long gone and so there are missing parts of the puzzle forever. So close, inside him, and yet so, so far away. He can never truly go back, he knows, somehow he knows. Go back where?

And there are some days, when he's up on Cadfan's Way, listening to the wind and the birds and his memories that seem even more incomplete, here, now, there are some days when he doesn't know if he wants to remember. Doesn't think he can handle going back, or even remembering the place to go back to. He's lived for so long with this yearning, this emptiness, so long by now that he doesn't know if he would be himself without it. It's almost become a part of him, the absence, it's part of his identity as he wanders the world. He knows he's not like anybody else, up here on the hills in the wind he knows he's right, but anywhere else he feels ridiculous. Especially and except around Will. And again he wants to know but doesn't know if he could know _why_.

So he's content for now to wander the mystery and darkness of his own dreams, his own mind, himself and only himself. Because he is very, very alone, no matter and because of what he feels. Two constantly conflicting emotions. It's so confusing he thinks he must be stuck in transition. Between what? And was he supposed to go back somewhere?

_

It's been odd without the others. It's been more than odd, it's been painful, when they're not there and then they're there and they still aren't there. Which is why he doesn't keep as in touch as he might. Although a part of him wants to, wants to spend every waking moment with that boy in Wales, in hopes that he might trigger some sort of memory, bring a part of his Bran ap Pendragon back. Simon, Jane, and Barney are alright. They never had much to do with it anyways, he only misses them a little bit because they're only missing a little bit of themselves. But Bran is missing an entire chunk of his life, of his identity, of himself. Surely, if any part of his kingliness existed before he was aware of the fact that he was entitled to it, then he must keep that kingliness, right? And if shreds of that identity had stayed too, maybe that would help piece together one of the many fragments his life has been broken into? Will doesn't know. All Will knows is to watch.

So he watches. And remembers.

He remembers everything, unlike the others. Someone should remember it, and since he's the only one left who can (don't think about Merriman) he must, for the others' sakes. From his eleventh birthday, all the way up until the Dark was defeated. At which point he stops reminiscing, and starts all over again. He doesn't want to think of relatively shallow, cryptic meetings with Bran and the others. Those are too painful. Too much is lacking. So he pores over the events, analyzing, thinking of possible alternative outcomes.

If Merriman hadn't erased their memories. If only. Then he wouldn't be so lonely, his fate as Watcher wouldn't make him so isolated from the others. If the Old Ones truly left him as the rearguard, then he was the last one, wasn't he? All alone. Completely, totally, thoroughly alone. And it felt like the worst kind of betrayal, thinks Will for the thousandth time. Betrayal.

At which point he stops thinking about that too, and goes back to happier times.

Buckinghamshire. The sluggish Thames. Greythorne Mansion and Ms. Greythorne. Snowdonia, and those Welsh hills. A curious dog that was so intent on "herding" him, like a sheep. A pale Welsh boy reciting poetry with a enchanting lilt, reciting prophecy, knowing what would come and one of the very few people who did.

Ironic. He knew the future, but now he doesn't even know his own past, like any common person.

He liked to run the lyrical words in that accent over and over in his mind, rolling them off his tongue in a cheap imitation of the real thing. Sometime he'd like to give Bran the words again, give it back to him even though he shouldn't ever, just to hear that voice saying the words that they did so long ago, pretend that it was all back to his normal, that nobody had forgotten yet. That nobody would ever forget. And then Bran would tell him to stop daydreaming, and he would have to because he was still Bran ap Pendragon. If Bran told him to throw himself off one of those green hillsides he would, because it was a royal command. He wouldn't mind, really. All he wanted was to hear that regal tone in Bran's voice again, and he liked to tell himself it was just because it gave him another way to pretend but that wasn't why, no, it was the voice.

  
_ _

They visit from time to time, Will going back to Wales and staying with his Aunt Jen and Uncle David. Bran comes over now and then, and they make polite conversation. The weather is nice, how are the sheep, is that your new dog, my family's fine, thank you. Never anything from before. It hurts Will more than he could have imagined, to see the boy he had gone through so much with, to not be able to talk to him about any of their grand adventures.

He supposes he could make up a game, where they pretend they did that sort of stuff, he supposes he could tell Bran the poem again and he could pretend it was all back to the way it was supposed to be. But that would take too much effort, the falsity and pretense on his part would hurt too badly, and Bran still wouldn't be any closer than he had been the day before. He would still have to look at that beautiful face, empty of any regal pride and power, and it would hurt him without wanting to hurt. He misses the thrill of being with his best friend on a run from danger, from the Dark.

Will misses being able to turn to his companion and tell him anything - well, almost anything. Too many secrets he has to keep locked up inside; he can't stand this for much longer, and yet he must, forever until his Watch ends.

For ever and ever. Everything happens, and then happens again.

But the Dark already rose a second time. There would be no more adventures fighting it. No possibility of that ever happening again. Will supposes he should be glad, and a part of him is, but a part of him is very disappointed. No more cryptic riddles, no more puzzles, no more mysteries to solve. Lonely.

Still, he can't keep from visiting Bran, no matter how painful it is. Hurts to see him, to know he could give the boy pieces of himself back again, at least clues to who he once was. Hurts to know he mustn't. But who could know? He is alone, the rearguard. Nobody else remains. Still, he shouldn't, it wouldn't be right no matter what.

He can't wait much longer.  
_

Out wandering the ancient Welsh hills again, Bran and Will stop under an outcropping rock, sheltering from the summer sun. They lean against the cool stone, not speaking, just being there together. It isn't much, but it's better than empty conversation, and they both know that. The warm breezes off the mountain drift around them, playing gently with loose strands of hair, eventually sending them into sleep.

Again, like they will forever, whisps of dreams tease Bran, dancing just out of his reach. In his sleep he reaches out, but he can never grasp them. His unconcious self knows that it is a game he must play, even though he never wins, because he cannot stop wanting it. He cannot even conceive to stop wanting this.

Will's dreams are not dreams. Will's dreams are memories, bright and clear, like the moment itself before it is lost. Intense, and they seem so real... too real, Will realizes, for them to be good, because he doesn't want real, he wants pretend. He wants dreams a normal boy would dream, because they would be full of things that make him happy. Instead he has dreams full of things that make him think very deeply. Even for an Old One, Will knows he's been doing far too much of that than is good for him.

So he struggles awake, lifts his eyelids that have been weighted down by the summer sun, now peeking her head over the rim of their rock, and he sees Bran. Grappling with his ghosts, reaching out for something, something Will doesn't know but could guess. This Bran, this boy who grasps the air and comes away empty handed every time, this is a picture of the Bran that knows he is missing something. Trying to find it, so close every time, knowing things that Will had hardly really hoped to see in his face again. It isn't the bold Pendragon, son of Arthur, but it is closer than the blissfully ignorant sheperd's son on a farm in Wales, and Will feels his heart grasp onto it.

And watching those hands, kneading thin air, he feels them grasp onto his heart.

It is then that he stops thinking about it. The only thing his brain does is realize; realize that Bran's pale eyelashes are fluttering, realize that his lips are slightly parted, that Will is now taking those hands and holding them in his own. Leaning down, so that he can feel the boy's breath on his face, can smell that scent of old earth and a new wind that is so uniquely Bran's. Can feel lips on lips.

He knows it isn't quite right. He knows this is a foolish thing to do, that Bran is going to wake up, and he will probably never be able to visit again. He doesn't care. These precious seconds are worth it.  
_

Bran feels himself drifting upwards, his hands warm and still, holding something, and it may be victory but he doesn't know.

It feels soft and warm, it feels like victory, it feels like a reminder of a home he never knew. He can't tell, just doesn't know.

Won't know until he wakes up.


End file.
